


Birth of a Notion

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Angst and fluff and humor, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Happy Ending, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Omegaverse, POV John Watson, Pregnant Sherlock, delivery Watson-Holmes child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 18:08:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11879964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Sherlock has always resented being an Omega, so you can bet he's not happy when John has to deliver their first child...trapped in the midst of a snowstorm in 221B Baker St.





	Birth of a Notion

“I’m bored,” Sherlock moaned from the couch.

 

“You usually are,” I replied, nodding sagely while washing the dishes.

 

“I’m fat,” he whinged, running his hands over his round belly.

 

I rolled my eyes. “No, you’re not,” I tried to reassure him.

 

“I look like the rear-end of a Metro bus,” he carried on.

 

I sighed and turned to face him where he was reclining in the parlor. “You’re _pregnant_ , Sherlock, not fat. For God’s sake, it’s a temporary situation.”

 

“Hmmph,” he returned. “You haven’t touched me in weeks. Even _you_ think I’m disgusting…”

 

That was it. I dropped the dishes into the sink, wiped my hands dry, and marched over to where my beloved, brilliant, temperamental husband was having a minor meltdown. I sat on the couch beside him. “We had sex just last Wednesday. Since then, you’ve been complaining about being too uncomfortable to be touched.”

 

No reply, but I could read that expression anywhere. Sherlock was sulking. He’d been doing this more and more over the last 3 months, since he’d _really_ begun to blossom. Developing breasts was just a bit _too_ far for him; he complained that they were sore and outsized for the purpose. It actually made me smile to myself. Sherlock being an Omega, rather than an Alpha, has always been a bit of a sore point for him. After all, _Mycroft_ was an Alpha and he never let Sherlock live it down. Hence, it became _my_ job to make him realize how much he was appreciated and loved for who—and what—he was.

 

“It’s not that bad, love,” I said, resting my hand on his belly and rubbing it gently. “Omegas and Betas do it all the time…”

 

“But not _me_!” he yelled, practically jack-knifing with intensity. “I’ve _never_ wanted offspring, _never_ wanted to raise some _human larva_ that would interfere with my work…”

 

“And _I_ never thought I would find someone as warm and wonderful as _you_ to spend my life with, and who would bear my child,” I countered gently. He looked up at me, biting his lip, his eyes luminous and silver. I leaned down and kissed the swell of his belly.

 

“If the condom hadn’t burst, this wouldn’t have happened,” he groused. “Bloody heats. Can’t stand them.” He pointed up at me accusingly. “ _You_ should have felt it break and withdrawn, John!”

 

I jerked back in surprise. I hadn’t expected him to turn _that_ fast. Bloody hormones. Even though I knew _why_ he was being so petulant, it wasn’t any easier to bear.

 

I gave him a “you’ve _got_ to be kidding me, right?” look. “Sherlock, once the knot was formed, I couldn’t _possibly_ have withdrawn. You _know_ that. On top of that, you wouldn’t have _let_ me withdraw, considering how bloody _insistent_ you get at that time.”

 

When he lowered his eyes, I knew I’d made my point. Heats are undeniable; stopping or withdrawing in the midst of one is nigh on impossible. Especially with Sherlock—he becomes a force of nature, not to be denied.

 

“I haven’t been able to go to a crime scene for _months_ ,” he mourned. “Last time I did, during my second trimester, all the detectives and technicians _laughed_ at me. ‘The Preggo Detecto’, they called me. How _humiliating_!” He pouted becomingly.

 

“Yeah, but when you went into false labor, you scared the _piss_ out of them,” I joked back. “They suddenly started being _real_ nice to you, then, just so you wouldn’t drop one in their laps!”

 

My husband smiled a bit at the memory, despite his foul humor. “I did get them back, didn’t I?” he chuckled before the smile faded again. “I know Lestrade has been trying to keep me busy with cases I can deal with in the flat, but it isn’t _enough_ , John.” He threw up his hands in disgust. “What am I supposed to do when the baby arrives? Strap it to my chest and soldier on?” He turned his face away.

 

I shook my head. Once Sherlock gets into a mood, it’s bloody difficult to get him out of it. “Look, love, we’ll make arrangements with Mrs. Hudson or Molly or Lestrade for someone to take care of him when he comes. And if you want to breast-feed…”

 

“Ugh,” Sherlock retorted. “No. Too limiting.”

 

“Better for the baby…”

 

“Worse for me. I never wanted to have tits in the first place. Breast-feeding will keep them around for months! Not to mention, I’ll have to get the baby weight off…John, this is just a disaster!”

 

And, with that, he started to cry.

 

I put my arms around him and held him close, all the while whispering how much I loved him for this and how great it will be to be a family. He kept shaking his head, tears streaming down his face, repeating “No, no, no, it’s not…I never wanted…”

 

“Shhh, shhh, love, I love you so much, baby, don’t cry…” I rocked him soothingly until the spell passed.

 

He sniffled. “I’m sorry, John. Maybe I should have just…” and he made an “away” motion with his hands over his belly.

 

“No!” I said, sternly. “We discussed this after it happened. You know I’ve…I’ve always wanted a family, including kids. Something I never really _had_ growing up, that sense of togetherness. And to be having this baby with _you_ … that’s just the best thing that could happen, for me. I _know_ this is a sacrifice for you, but I _promised_ you I would co-parent this baby. We’re equal partners in this, love. You’re doing the heavy work now, but you know I’ll do a lot of the heavy work _later_ , when I can actually make a difference. Not too much I can do _now_ , after all, except keep you comfortable and healthy and feeling appreciated.”

 

He pulled me closer and gave me a hug that nearly cracked my spine. “Thank you, John, for being here for me. I know how difficult I can be sometimes.” He kissed me on the cheek, his own face still damp from tears. “I love you, and I’ll be the best father I can be to our child.”

 

“I know you will, love, I know you will,” I whispered.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Sherlock had been particularly antsy during the night.

 

“My back hurts,” he complained into his pillow.

 

“Not surprising,” I sleepily murmured into mine.

 

“No, I mean, _really_ hurts.”

 

I rolled over. “Do you want me to massage it for you?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

I balled up my fist and pressed it into his right lower back, where the pain was usually the worst. It felt tight. I could feel him relax as it took away some of the discomfort. Sherlock was a tall man; carrying a baby-belly was making him stand very differently than his usual posture, hence the back pain. I changed sides and pressed into the left side and he sighed in relief.

 

“That’s a bit better. Thank you,” he said, softly.

 

“Any time, love,” I said as I spooned him from behind, wrapping my arms around him snugly. He settled and I fell asleep.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“John. _John_!”

 

I started. “Yeah! Yeah, what?” I asked, blearily. I turned the alarm clock around to look at the display. “What time is it? Why are you up so early?” I blinked up at my husband, where he stood looking out the bedroom window in silhouette, his hands supporting his lower back.

 

“Couldn’t sleep. Back still hurts. And it’s snowing.”

 

I nodded, my mind still hazy. “Yeah, big front moving in. So?”

 

He turned his face to me. “So? I’m nearing my due date…”

 

I smiled reassuringly. “Love, don’t worry. First pregnancies historically take a while. They’ll have the streets clear by the time we have to go to the birthing center.”

 

I heard Sherlock grunt non-commitally as he turned back to his observation. One hand came around to rub his belly thoughtfully. “It’s worrying, you know,” he mused. “Being responsible for something that is so completely dependent upon you. I mean,” he turned to face me, “if something happens to me, then the baby is immediately involved, whether it was meant to be or not. For example, if Moriarty had shot me…”

 

I held up a finger to challenge him. “Which he would never do because he’s an Alpha. It’s drilled into all of us—never harm an Omega.”

 

He made a face. “True, but Moriarty was a _rogue_ Alpha.”

 

“True, but it is _far_ more likely that he would have forced you to mate with him and carry his offspring.”

 

He made an even _worse_ face. “Agh, what a disgusting notion. _Truly_ a morning-after disaster.” He shook his head as if to clear out the thought. “As I was saying, though—it concerns me that I will have to care for _this_ one,” he tapped his belly, “better than I take care of myself. It’s…daunting.”

 

I smiled again, this time, tenderly. Sometimes Sherlock can surprise me with the twists and turns of his nature. “I can’t think of _anyone_ _else_ I’d want raising a child with me than you, love.”

 

He smiled back, flattered but still a bit skittish. I held out my hand. “Come to bed, love. It’s cold out there; I can see your lips turning blue from here.”

 

“Liar,” he pronounced, but returned to bed nonetheless. He was icy-cold to the touch, so I wrapped the covers around us until he warmed up.

 

“I love you, you know,” he whispered, our faced almost nose-to-nose.

 

“Love you too, beautiful. And don’t tell me you’re not. Right now, you couldn’t be more beautiful to me if you tried.”

 

We kissed and snuggled down in our quilt nest, oblivious to the snow falling outside.

 

>>>***<<<

 

 

I was alone when I woke up.

 

This concerned me for two reasons: One, Sherlock is a night-owl. He _always_ sleeps in later than I do. Two, Sherlock is pregnant. Not the serene, glowing, bearer-of-life pregnant most Omegas are. Nope, Sherlock is nervous, twitchy, overwhelmed, and scared half-to-death. He tries to stay as close to me as possible, “just in case”. Now, mind you, he’s _not_ this clingy when he’s his usual self but, since I’m a doctor, he follows me around like a pregnant pup looking for reassurance that everything is going to be okay. God, the number of books on pregnancy, childbirth, and ‘pediatrics: the early years’ he has read is _amazing_. The man is an omnivore when it comes to reading; if it has _anything_ to do with a case or a condition, he’s all over it. However, he is usually reading it within eyeshot of wherever I am, except when I’m at work. Then he just lies on the couch and frets until I return. Ergo, if he’s missing, I worry.

 

“Sherlock? Love, where are you?” I called out, once I had determined he wasn’t merely in the loo.

 

“Where is Mrs. Hudson?” his voice came back from the front room. “Isn’t she supposed to be back by now?” He sounded anxious.

 

I dragged myself out of the warmth of my bed threw on the nice, fleecy robe Sherlock had bought me for Christmas, grateful for its warmth.  After slipping on my fuzzy slippers with the bunny ears (don’t ask), I flip-flopped my way into the kitchen to put on the kettle. It was then that I saw Sherlock, facing the street, hands on the window pane as if he was about to be frisked, staring into space. His body was rigid.

 

“What is it, love?” I asked as I filled the kettle and set it on the stove.

 

“It snowed,” he said, flatly.

 

I nodded. “Well, yes, of course it did. I told you…”

 

“NO, JOHN, IT _SNOWED_ ,” he reiterated, loudly and with emphasis. I walked to the other window and looked out over the drapes. By God, he was right. It _had_ snowed, in all caps. Nothing was moving. The street was largely empty save for a couple of hardy souls trying to muscle their way through thigh-high drifts. Doors were buried in snow up and down the street.

 

Sherlock turned his face toward me. On it were fear and horror, written large. _This_ on the face of a man who has never once flinched in the face of danger, even when a gun was fired at him. I would have laughed if it wasn’t so painful to see.

 

“Where’s Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock peeped, his normally robust voice deserting him. “Did she…get home last night?”

 

I ran to the top of the stair and shouted down to her several times. No response. When I turned back toward the parlor, I saw a very pregnant Sherlock standing in the doorway, frozen in uncertainty.

 

“Did she answer?” he asked, even though he could have clearly heard her if she had.

 

I shook my head _no_ and he threw up his hands in despair. “ _How could she leave at a time like this?_ ” he howled to the heavens as he stomped back into the flat. Wordlessly, I sauntered inside behind him as Sherlock continued to rant about sick nieces and uncooperative weather and people abandoning other, pregnant people at the most inopportune times…

 

“So, what am I, chopped liver?” I asked acidly, suddenly feeling a bit peevish myself. “Just because Mrs. Hudson has had children, she’s a _Beta_ and, therefore, she is _totally_ unfamiliar with Omega biology. I, on the other hand, am an _army_ _doctor_ who has had to deliver babies for _all sorts_ of people. Not likely _I’ll_ be of much use _here_ …” and I deliberately stomped out of the room, into the bedroom, and slammed the door behind me, I was so done with the drama.

 

There was silence for a long while as Sherlock sulked and I calmed myself down. Then I started to feel a bit guilty. After all, _Sherlock_ was the one carrying the brunt of this escapade, one he had never asked for nor wanted. He was trying his best but, after all, he _was_ Sherlock and, as such, had certain _limitations_ … still, wasn’t _I_ entitled to a little consideration, seeing as how _I_ had to put up with his melodramatic outbursts…?

 

“John?” came the quiet, tentative question from the hall.

 

“What, Camille?” I snapped out, not feeling like supporting his need for operatics.

 

“ ** _JOHN_**!” _This_ time there was panic. I jumped to my feet and flung the door open to reveal Sherlock, standing at the door, his pyjama bottoms soaked through. He was trembling. “John, I think something’s happening…”

 

Shit.

 

“When?”

 

“Just now.”

 

I turned back into the bedroom and found him a fresh set of pj’s to change into. His hands were shaking as he donned them and pulled on a dry robe after them. His eyes were almost round with fear. “What now, John?” he asked, his voice just the tiniest bit tremulous.

 

“Well, you are officially in labor, love,” I stated. He bit his lip. “Keep moving as much as you can. Staying upright will help the labor progress more rapidly by letting gravity do the hard work. What about your contractions?” I rested my hand on his belly; there was no change from prior.

 

“What, am I supposed to be having contractions?” Sherlock asked nervously. “Here?” He ran his hand around mine on his belly.

 

I nodded. “Yes, that’s…wait, you’re not getting any contractions? At all?” Now _I_ was beginning to get alarmed.

 

“Not here, no. My back has been _killing_ me for the past day…”

 

I think the color must have drained out of my face at that news. Sherlock’s normal pallor went totally white in response. “Not good?” he asked.

 

“Damn. Not good. You are, and have been, having back contractions rather than abdominal ones. Same end result, but I thought you were just having postural discomfort, _not_ labor pains. We _could_ have taken you to the birthing center if you had let me know sooner!” I griped.

 

Sherlock bristled. “ _I’ve_ never _done_ this before, if you would kindly recall. _You’re_ the professional in this matter.” He crossed his arms defiantly. “So, instead of lobbing blame back and forth like a tennis game, shall we try to come up with a solution? Like, getting to the birthing center?”

 

I sighed in resignation. “Okay, yeah, let me get on my coat and boots and try to dig out the doorway so we can get to St. Barts.”

 

My husband nodded and unfolded his arms so he could press into his back. “Please hurry. They’re getting worse, and lasting longer.”

 

I nodded and headed for the door. I knew where Mrs. Hudson kept the snow shovel. When I opened the front door, I nearly pissed myself. The drift was almost as tall as I was! “Christ!” was all I could say as I tucked into the drift with real purpose. I had to get Sherlock to the hospital so our baby could be born with all the advantages medical science could offer. Not that I was afraid anything was _wrong_ with it; I had kept too good an eye on Sherlock, forbidding him from doing things I _knew_ could harm him _or_ the baby. Still, one never knows, so it’s better to be safe than sorry in such matters.

 

I had knocked out a good start in the drift when I heard Sherlock yelling upstairs. Then he yelled _down_ the stairs, “John Watson, get the hell up here! I’m about to shit out a baby!”

 

I dropped the shovel, slammed the door, and ran up the stairs two at a time. As I reached the turnaround, I could see Sherlock leaning over the railing, one hand pressed against his back, his face a study in pain. I put my arms around him and led him back into the flat, saying, “I _wish_ you wouldn’t put it that way, Sherlock!”

 

“Can _you_ think of a better way for a male Omega to describe it?” he gritted through his teeth as he hobbled into the parlor and sat down on the couch. “ _God_ , that hurts. It’s just coming _one_ after _another_ …”

 

“Lie down on your side, back to me,” I ordered. He complied, grateful to be able to recline. I went into the kitchen and brought out a set of latex gloves, which I snapped into place.

 

Upon hearing the familiar snap, Sherlock’s head shot up. “And what, _exactly,_ are you planning on doing back there, John?”

 

“I want to check the condition of your cervix,” I replied, matter-of-factly.

 

“NO!” he howled. “I’ve had _enough_ of this! YOU ARE NOT PUTTING YOUR HAND UP MY ARSE!”

 

“IT WAS THERE LAST WEEK, SO SHUT IT!” I yelled back. A little lube and the job was done with minimal fuss. “There, all done, you precious princess. You’re almost fully dilated and effaced, so it won’t…”

 

A long arm lashed out and grabbed me by the collar of my jumper as Sherlock jerked me down to face level. He glared at me and snarled. “If you _ever_ call me that again, I will _gut you like a fish_. _DO YOU HEAR ME, JOHN_? **_THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT_**!”

 

I nodded. Aaand it looked as though we had just entered into the transitional phase…

 

Abruptly, he let me go as another contraction took hold and wrenched a moan from his gut.

 

“How long?” he gasped, back to his more-or-less normal self.

 

I considered as I loosened the neck of my jumper. “I’d say the baby should be born within the next hour, hour-and-a-half or so, unless the labor stops, which it’s _very_ unlikely to do. In fact, I want you to move back into the bedroom. It would be better for you to give birth on the bed than here.”

 

He nodded and I helped him get up from the couch and toddle into the bedroom. “God, I feel like I need to take the biggest crap in history,” he moaned, clutching his belly, the pain having shifted farther forward. I smiled. He was _so_ obviously trying to keep up appearances.

 

“Okay, on the bed,” I directed as he crawled into the middle of our still-unmade marital bed. I ran and got some old, ratty towels Sherlock normally used to clean up after the more harmless experiments; all others go to St Barts in a red plastic garbage bag. Thankfully, I had just done the wash, so they were clean and ready to be used and discarded post-labor. I also got a good one for wrapping the baby and a syringe to suction out the mouth. By the time I got back, Sherlock was trembling.

 

“I feel sick,” he said in a pitifully small voice. His eyes sought out mine. “I’m scared, John. What if something happens…”

 

“It won’t…”

 

“John…” Another wave, coming closer and closer together now. He groaned.

 

“Shhh. It’ll be all right, love. No worries,” I said, as soothingly as I could.

 

“John, it hurts…God, it hurts and it won’t stop…!” He clenched his teeth and grabbed the headboard behind his head. I swore I could hear it creak in protest to Sherlock’s grip. He finally couldn’t take it anymore and wailed, just wailed in pain.

 

I nearly lost it. Army doctor that I am, I almost panicked. When it’s your loved one in _that much pain_ , it’s such a helpless feeling; even if you _know_ that this is normal, it _still_ rattles your cage.

 

“Get on your knees, facing the headboard,“ I said, helping him to turn and assume the best position for a male Omega to give birth in. He was shaking so hard the headboard was rattling. He looked close to collapse.

 

“I’ve got to push!” he yelled. “John!”

 

“Hold on, love, just let me…” I crawled into position behind him, catching towel in place. I snapped on a new set of gloves just as there was a little spurt of blood and fluid from the birth canal, aka Sherlock’s arse.

 

“John, what…what’s that…oh, my God…John!” he gasped, his breaths becoming shorter and faster. “John…”

 

From my position, I could very easily see why he was so perplexed. Sherlock was sporting a bit of an erection.

 

“It’s okay, Sherlock, the baby’s head is passing your prostate now, putting pressure on it. The erection and associated feelings are perfectly normal…”

 

Sherlock howled again as contractions pushed the head lower, the crown now clearly visible at the aperture. As the head was pushed out, Sherlock’s howl became less about pain and more about pleasure as his cock erupted all over the headboard. The contractions associated with orgasm helped propel our baby out into the world with little effort. He just slid out and tumbled into my hands.

 

He was alive, thank God. I examined him briefly, mentally performing the APGAR test with perfect results. Then, I wrapped him in the towel and, using the syringe, cleared his airway of any amniotic fluid. He fussed, then settled and took some good, deep breaths. My God, the relief I felt then! I laid him safely on the bed and turned back to attend to Sherlock.

 

He was shaking; he was done. I helped him turn over and lie down with his shoulders against the headboard (after cleaning it off, of course). His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat and he could barely keep his eyes open. I helped him settle in, covering him with a comforter.

 

His head rolled to one side, eyes heavy-lidded, as he asked, “How is he?”

 

I retrieved our son and brought him over to Sherlock. Dazedly, he looked down on the small, bloody, now-squirming infant in my arms, wrapped in a white towel. “He needs a bath,” Sherlock drawled sleepily.

 

I smiled at him. “So do you, and so do I, but we can deal with that later. Would you like to hold your new son, Daddy?”

 

The soft look on Sherlock’s face when I said that, you’d think the sun had come out after a year of rain. “Yes, I would,” he murmured, reaching out for the baby. I placed it in his arms and he pulled it closer, visually cataloguing it in excruciating detail.  The baby began to fuss louder and then cry. Sherlock shushed it gently.

 

“Probably hungry,” I observed, not ready to push the issue of breastfeeding but feeling that I should mention the obvious. After all, being born is a lot of hard work. “Wish we had some formula here.”

 

Sherlock bestowed a quizzical look upon me before saying, “Help me with my shirt, John.”  I assisted him in raising up his shirt on one side, exposing one of the breasts he had so reviled yesterday, and watched as he positioned the baby at the nipple until it latched on and started suckling. He then looked up at me and grinned. “I guess they’re good for something, after all.”

 

“Yeah,” I agreed as I placed my hand on our baby’s head and kissed my husband’s temple tenderly. “You were wonderful, Sherlock. Terrific! Fantastic! He’s perfect,” I enthused. “Look at that dark hair! He looks just like you!”

 

“No,” he responded, a shadow crossing his face as he suddenly took notice. “No, that’s wrong, it shouldn’t be that way.” He shook his head as tears began to collect in his silver eyes.

 

“What?” I asked, mystified. “Why not? Sherlock…”

 

He turned his head to give me one of the oddest looks I’ve ever seen from him. “It should be _you_ , not me. He should be blond-haired, brave and loyal and…” He began to weep in earnest. “It should be _you_ who continues, not me. I’m _nothing_ without you.”

 

Oh, God, how can I explain how much I love this man? I put my arms around the two of them and held them as close as I could. This was my family, the one I had always wanted, the one I was denied as a child, only, this time, I could make it right. I could make it right for Sherlock, too, the childhood he never had, the love he needed and never got. And the best part was, we could do this while making our child’s life better than ours ever was, just by giving it the love we lived without.

 

I choked back tears as I said, “ _No_ , love, no. You’re _everything_ to me, and now you’ve given me the greatest gift possible. I love you _so much_. You’re selfless and kind and fucking brilliant, and I know our child will be _just_ as exceptional as you are.”

 

He raised his face to mine and I kissed him, right there on those beautiful, full lips so lovingly offered.

 

Then I winked. “Besides, maybe the _next_ one will look like me…”

 

Sherlock grimaced skeptically. “Don’t even go there yet, John…IF we have another, I hope it’ll be a boy. I would be _hopeless_ with girls.”

 

“I disagree, love. I think you’d be _great_ with a little girl…”

 

Considering the look he gave me then, I decided that the better part of valor was to change the subject. “Well, now we have to agree on a name.”

 

“Hamish,” Sherlock said.

 

“No way in Hell,” I said. “Scott.”

 

“No way in Hell,” Sherlock said.

 

“Mycroft,” I teased. I thought Sherlock was about to vomit. “No. Fucking. _Way_ ,” he enunciated through gritted teeth.

 

 “Well, this may require some discussion, then,” I observed.

 

“Of course. And you _do_ _know_ what will happen if you try to name him something I _don’t like_ , right?” Sherlock asked, all innocence.

 

I nodded. “Yeah, you’ll gut me like a fish.”

 

Sherlock simply smiled and nodded.

 

Speaking of guts, Sherlock’s placenta delivered itself right about then, precipitating a final cleanup and check for bleeding and sparing us from any further discussions about naming and gutting. Then we settled down to enjoy our new son.

 

It had all happened “by the book”. A perfect birth, by a perfect mate, with a perfect life to come.

 

Can’t ask for anything more than that.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know labor doesn't happen that fast, but did you really want to hear Sherlock complaining for that long?


End file.
